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Dowser’s Prayer

I am religious
the way small desert towns
are named after water;
eleven or twenty worn buildings,
brown hills, dust.

Holy Places

No Celestial room has ever compared
to the stalk of yellow bluestem held in my son’s teeth
three-quarters of a mile into a Sunday afternoon walk,
      feathered seeds dancing with every step.

Golden Plates Ode

Were they fake news? Etched
on tin? Did the boy prophet
really find them sequestered

A December Poem

Under the dome above, we look up,
singing children’s canticles,
our own domed hearts
clutched by the promise